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all regions and ages of the world; and has all those elements so happily mixed up in him, and bears his high faculties so temperately, that the most severe reader cannot complain of him for want of strength or of reason, nor the most sensitive for defect of ornament or ingenuity. Every thing in him is in unmeasured abundance, and unequalled perfection; but every thing so balanced and kept in subordination, as not to jostle or disturb or take the place of another. The most exquisite poetical conceptions, images, and descriptions, are given with such brevity, and introduced with such skill, as merely to adorn without loading the sense which they accompany. Although his sails are purple and perfumed, and his prow of beaten gold, they waft him on his voyage, not less, but more rapidly and directly, than if they had been composed of baser materials. All his excellencies, like those of nature herself, are thrown out together; and, instead of interfering with, support and recommend each other. His flowers are not tied up in garlands, nor his fruits crushed into baskets, but spring living from the soil, in all the dew and freshness of youth; while the graceful foliage in which they lurk, and the ample branches, the rough and vigorous stem, and the wide-spreading roots on which they depend, are present along with them, and share, in their places, the equal care of their creator.


WHEN Music, heavenly Maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting:
By turns, they felt the glowing mind

Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said,-when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,-
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each for madness ruled the hour-
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear-his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made!

Next, Anger-rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings;
In one rude clash, he struck the lyre,
And swept, with hurried hand, the strings!

With woful measures, wan Despair—

Low, sullen sounds!-his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air:
'Twas sad, by fits-by starts, 'twas wild!

But thou, O Hope!-with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance, hail!—
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She call'd on Echo still through all her song!

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close: And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair!

And longer had she sung; but, with a frown,
Revenge-impatient rose:

He threw his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder, down,
And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread-
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo!—

And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat!
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild, unalter'd mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head!

Thy numbers, Jealousy!—to naught were fix'd;
Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes, the veering song was mix'd:And now it courted Love-now, raving, call'd on Hate!

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy—sat retired;

And from her wild, sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound,

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,—

Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing

In hollow murmurs died away!

But oh, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!

When Cheerfulness-a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rungThe hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known:

The oak-crown'd sisters and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs, and Sylvan boys, were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green! Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear!

And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear!

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial;

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best!
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing!
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love framed with mirth a gay fantastic round!
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound:
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings!


OH! very far in the cathedral-aisles

Of that wild wood, with gleamy sun-light stain'd
In its high windowy inlets, and its boughs
Low swung with curtaining verdure of the vine,
An Indian warrior stood.

From early dawn
He had aroused the deer; and long, o'er hill

And heathery cliff steep in the sunny air,
And the green rivulet-banks, had traced far down
Her flying pathway, by the silver dew-
Weary, but eager-when a mystic voice,
Unheard before, broke on his vigilant ear!
Was it the earthquake's awful roar?—It comes
With a perpetual music, as a chant

Of spirits in the sky!-Again!-again!-
Was it the thunder's murmur, or the sound
Of summer breezes mustering in the sky
Their stormy strength-the innumerable leaves
All bending in their presence, like a host

Of living things, with low-toned, whispering stir?
No; these the warrior heard, and he had heard
Of yore: they were familiar to his sense
As voices of his childhood. But, again!—
Amid the drowsy solitude it rings,

And rings for aye!-He lifted mutely up
His long, dark eye-lash, while the graven bow
Dropp'd from his hand dependent, and in vain
Long gazed around, above, if aught of earth
Might tread the shadowy wild, or aught divine-
As dreams had told him-in the sunny air
Sweep harps of heaven that mortal eye might see!
The mountain-eagle lit upon the pine

That rustled near, and in its upper boughs
Lifting her bannery pinions with a scream,
Swung playfully. With startled rush
Bounded the red-deer by, half-turn'd aside
Her high-arch'd neck, and her round rolling eye
Shining with gleams of fear; yet, arrowless,

She pass'd away, and beautiful as ever.


I will move on," murmur'd the wondering chief: A shadow cross'd his memory, of a tale

Of other days-which old and hoary men

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